Striking not only twice, but twenty times

It has been raining leopards and hyenas here lately (our version of cats and dogs). At one point last week, the lightning was so near that the thunder shook the ground beneath me, and cloud-to-cloud lightening coursed through the clouds above our office. Overall, it is an awesome and humbling experience, and not totally benign. I heard of two tragic cases last week in which lives were lost: one was a pair of young boys, apparently in town, the other two adults in a neighboring village.

What a pity that taking shelter under a tree can seem such a logical thing to do in a rainstorm.

It made me wonder, how many of the thunderbolts flying above end-up touching down? I found this at Wikipedia:

According to this analysis of NASA data, Kigoma is struck by about 20-30 bolts per square kilometer per year. Some of them from storms which move at breakneck pace toward the lake, while others hover and block the view of even the closest peninsula close across the bay. There are two forms: dry lightning (which hints of rain but never does) and wet lightening, the storms of which can pour.

Wet lightening or dry, I am usually inside when the storms hit, but I caught this dwindling storm last year and wanted to share the images with you:

The real power of a storm is naturally in its motion, which is difficult to render with still images, but unless you come visit me, this is probably the best I can do.

Just in time

I was in Oregon last month for a wonderful combination of work and play. When I left my family's home in the early morning hours, one of the last things I noticed was Orion hovering above and tipped on his side, as though frozen mid-stride - running somewhere, perhaps late for a plane as I was.

And when I returned last week, I looked to the sky to see if he was still running, but he was nowhere to be found. Instead Hercules was there, reclining on his back, sinking into the west - his season expiring - seemingly exhausted from several days of travel, sleeping upright and airline meals. I soon sank into a similar pose, this time in the east. It felt good to be back.

Now, one week later, a blanket of clouds has been pulled over the constellations holding court above - the gods and demigods hidden from view, but still there, somewhere.

The rainy season has begun. And with it, the sky is disappearing, bugs are reappearing, orange blossoms are in bloom and fragrances abound.

This is a magical time of year in Kigoma, complete with fanfare (cicadas by day and fruit bats by night). Nature seems to be rejoicing the return of the rains; I am excited for their return, too.

In a faroff land

Mount Urugulu

Today is the last day of my Kiswahili language program. I spent the afternoon session telling a story and trying to incorporate a variety of the vocab and tenses I have learned.

This story is inspired by three things: the mountain near the campus, the large baobab trees clustered around our sleeping quarters and, apparently, prolonged solitude.

"Upo katika kipindi kingine, kulikuwa mlima mrefu ajabu. Kilele cha mlima hakikuonekana kwa sababu mawingu mengi. Niliamua kupanda mlima ili nione juu ya huo.

In another time, there was a marvelously tall mountain. The peak did not appear because there were clouds. I decided to climb the mountain in order to see the top of it.

Kupanda kulikuwa kugumu, kwa sababu kulikuwa na matope mengi ingawa jua lilikuwa kali. Usiku ule, nilipika chakula juu ya moto, lakini pepo ulivuma kwa kasi na moto ulikufa mara nyingi. Nikaenda kulala na njaa na chini ya mti. Nikalala vibaya, kwa maana kulinyesha nusu usiku, na suati za pori ilikuwa kubwa sana.

The climbing was difficult, because there was much mud even though the sun was fierce. That night, I cooked food over a fire, but the wind blew with high speed and the fire died many times. I went to bed hungry and under a tree. I slept poorly, because it rained half the night and the sounds of the forest were very loud.

Asubuhi ijayo, nilipanda tena na kwa bidii. Jua lilikuwa kali, lakini niliendelea. Halafu, nikafika mawinguni. Niliweka fungu la wingu mfukoni la kumpa rafiki yangu.

The next morning, I climbed again and with effort. The sun was fierce, but I continued. Then I reached the clouds. I put a piece of cloud in my pocket to give to my friend.

Halafu niliendelea tena. Ilikuwa giza, kwa sababu mawingu yalikuwa mapana sana. Kwenda mbele ilikuwa vigumu sana. Nilienda kushoto kidogo, halafu kulia kidogo na labda kuzunguka maduara, lakini nikaendelea kupanda.

Then I continued again. It was dark because the clouds were very thick. Going forward was very difficult. I went a little left, then a little right and maybe around in circles, but I continued climbing.

Wakati ulipita. Majani yalianguka kutoka mitini. Halafu, nikaliona jua tena, baada ya kupanda juu ya mawingu. Niliwaona ndege na nilianza kuimba na hao.

The time passed. Leaves fell from the trees. Then, I saw the sun again, after I climbed above the clouds. I saw birds and I sang with them.

Ndege waliruka kaskazi na niliwafuata. Waliniongoza mpaka jiti refu ajabu na kama upana wa tembo. Jiti lilikuwa na matunda mengi. Nilipata majani ya jiti na nikaweka hayo mfukoni pamoja na wingu. Udongo ulikuwa kama mchanga. Nilitumia kijiti na kuandikia jina la rafiki yangu katika udongo. Niliketi pale na nikala matunda matatu. Nikajiambia nitataka kumtumia rafiki hadithi hii.

The birds flew north and I followed. They led me to a giant and wonderfully tall tree [which was] wide like an elephant. The tree had many fruits. I took leaves of the tree and put them in my pocket together with the cloud. The dirt was like sand. I used a stick and wrote my friend’s name in the dirt. I sat there and ate three fruits. I told myself I needed to tell my friend this story.

Kijiti kilachwa na mimi, na udongo pia. Lakini jina lilikaa moyoni.

The stick was left by me, and the dirt, too. But the name resides in my heart.

Hata leo, mimi hurudi pale."

Even today, I return there.

Baobab tree

The mountain shows its face

Flash in the night

Deep in the night there was a distant flash of light that I only peripherally registered while tossing in my sleep. Seconds later, a wind burst into my room, dampening my face and knocking both of my windows off their moorings, thrashing them against the house.

The accompanying rain was so dense and penetrating as to be maddening – pure sheets of rain created a cacophony of sound that was disorienting. The kind of rain that, when it was over, would leave behind a silence that would make one feel alone in the world.

Lightening struck bright and close, filling my room with light; at times seeming to ripple along the belly of the clouds directly above my house, casting shadows one way in my room and then the next. At others, light entered opposite windows with simultaneous flashes, presumably filling the cloud hanging over my house with a deadly glow.

Thunder boomed ominously, as though bombs were exploding above; this same thunder only moments before had sounded like a cannon nearby, and before that like a distant riffle. In my experience, lightening is often muted by thunder, but now they happened simultaneously, somewhere over the tin roof of my house.

And just as the storm entered through one window, it passed through my room and kept on going, stretching out over the lake, and I feared for the fishermen as I watched their lamps flicker nervously on the horizon.

The day the rains came

I woke-up at 6:50 this morning to rain pounding outside the wood frame of my windows. By 6:57, it was over. It was a warning to us all of the rains to come.

Last night my friends and I enjoyed the view of the clouds in this photo rising high into the sky behind the hills of Kigoma, like a curtain rising before the wet season spectacle begins. The natural world seems to be restless with anticipation; the birds are chirping louder, the greens are growing taller and sprouting flowers, the cicadas vibrate with a deafening frequency. I, too, am filled with anticipation, wondering what I will find when the curtain rises.

Squall line

If you liked the cumulonimbus cloud I posted on September 10, check out the one above from Saturday night. This double-anvil cloud system was likely full of ice crystals at the top - hard to believe given how hot it was that day. There are still so many sights and sounds that I am getting accustomed to here, but I don't think I will ever tire of seeing clouds like these.

Cumulonimbus over Kibirizi

I was stunned to see a Cumulonimbus cloud towering over Kibirizi Road on my way home from Gibb's yesterday. As I watched, it grew up and up and up, the upwelling pushing it higher and higher and making it puff and bubble like a bag of popcorn.

I ran home to get my camera. Unfortunately, by the time I took this photo, the cloud's top had fallen over and it was being dispersed by the wind.

But the omen was clear. Precipitation is entering the atmosphere again; the wet season is upon us. I can't wait!